


La folie et L'amour jouaient un jour ensemble

by Sachita



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:17:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9464879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sachita/pseuds/Sachita
Summary: Until we are both dead, she had once said. But here they were, both alive and breathing, and he had built a life without her. She should have felt furious, but there was nothing. Until we are both dead - maybe she was dead already. Milady and Athos, post Season 3. I have no idea where it goes :)





	1. La folie et L'amour

**I: L'amour et la folie**

He had made his peace without her. Without her. The words kept on running inside her head again and again and again until she was sure that would she open her mouth nothing else would come out. The words resonated within her until she was filled with them and then – suddenly - there was nothing. She listened to her heartbeat in the dead silence. There was nothing else now. No sound, no words, nothing. The room she was in was silent. Even the outside seemed to be silent even though that was nigh impossible in a city like Paris. She wondered numbly, should she cease to exist, would the silence stay nonetheless? It seemed so all-encompassing.

She had hoped- oh no, maybe dared to hope – that maybe he would have waited for her nonetheless. Even if she had left early at the crossroads, even if he had not come – or had he maybe? She would never know – she had been so entirely self-assured that he would still be there for her. Had been so arrogant to believe she would be the only one for him. The only woman in the world he could ever love. And then she had returned to France and tried to find him, searching his old haunts – and finding nothing.

After weeks of fruitless search she had, in some odd fit of despair, asked at the garrison. It had been the giant Porthos, who had replied to her query with cold eyes and an even colder voice. "He is gone. Married with a child on the way. Neither will I tell you his whereabouts nor allow the first happiness he has been allowed for years to be destroyed by you, who were his downfall in the first place." Behind him d'Artagnan had crossed his arms. He had not even told her she needed to leave, she knew that herself. She could not even bring herself to answer anything.

Stumbling, she had backed away and turned away and walked down the street and would have been maimed by a passing carriage had a stranger not yanked her back. Would she have looked back, she would have seen the Musketeers staring after her uneasily.

"I thought she would spit her poison at us again," Porthos mumbled. "Yes," d'Artagnan said grimly, adding: "Maybe she has some vicious design once again."

Aramis, who had been leaning next to them on the wall, said thoughtfully: "I don't think so. I think we got to see an honest reaction from her for once."

"Well, whatever," Porthos stated and had pulled them back inside. "We have other things to do, to worry about. She is not important."

Milady, if she had heard that last part, would have been inclined to agree with that statement. She was not important to Athos and not to anyone else. In a daze she had walked back to her rented room in the area of Paris she had grown up in. He had forsaken her, this time he had truly forsaken her. What was she without him? She was nothing. He was everything without her apparently, and that thought should have made her furious, but instead just left her empty. There was just no anger left within her anymore.

No…she would not go looking for him, they needn't be afraid of that. If anything she was not going to grovel at his feet for forgiveness, forced to look his new lover in the face while doing so. No.

Sarazin had once told her that in order to become powerful she would have to become a glacier, not feeling anything for anybody. No friendships, no attachments and most important, no love. He had told her so because once, he had wanted to make her his successor. But she had abhorred him, had abhorred the things he told her and made her do and so she had one day up and left him for a better, brighter future at the side of her Comté. He had been supposed to be her key to high society, not more, but instead she had found within him a passion so raw and deep that she gave her entire being , her entire soul to him.

And it had been bright for a short time, sunshine and fields full of flowers. She remembers quite clearly her marvel at those flowers the first time she had seen them. They had been so bright, so colourful, so unlike grey Paris. Athos had used to tease her about it endlessly: "If you keep on gazing at the flowers they are going to grow out of your ears one day." She had only replied dreamily that she would not mind that at all and he had shaken his head, laughing.

I would want to be a flower on that meadow, she thought with sudden painful longing as she now stood in her lusterless chambers, all alone with her memories and the silence. I would love to be a flower on that meadow just for one summer, being happy and knowing nothing of grievous days, only the sunshine and the rain and the summer storms. I would not mind dying after that summer. It would be such a beautiful time and I honestly would not mind withering away and dying away. Why, why, why could I not have stayed on that meadow indefinitely and forever and forever?

But there was nothing now but dead dreams and memories still so sharp and painful that they rubbed her raw. Where did she go from this place? There was nothing left, no anger, no feelings of vengeance and even the hurt disappeared again in the all-encompassing numbness. How is it possible to feel so numb and yet so painfully alive at the same time?

She stepped closer to the window to watch the grey January streets and wondered how she came to be here. She remembered little Anne on those streets, poor and dirty and yet so full of hunger for life and love and passion and wondered where she had gone…She wished she knew. Oh, how she wished, she knew…


	2. La reine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Milady is summoned to the Queen.

**La reine**

So now she tried to make her peace without him. It didn't prove to be easy. Winter was now in full swing, covering the entire city in a blanket of white. It turned so cold that soon everyone was talking about nothing else than the cold. Even some parts of the Seine were frozen and people stopped by to laugh as some children attempted to do some ice skating on the majestic, frozen rapids. Milady did not wish to stop as she walked by - the odour coming from the river had never been something she enjoyed having in her nose, but out of the sudden she took a hard fall on some ice hidden underneath the dirt of the street.

Someone helped her up. "Are you alright, Madame?" A man's friendly voice asked. She looked at him – he was tall with dark hair and light eyes and it struck some curious note within her. Before she could answer, a voice cut in: "Henri, there you are! You didn't follow." A rough-looking man with an unkempt appearance stared at her and at the stranger. There was something oddly unappealing to him - a strange contrast to the man called Henri.

Henri smiled. "My brother, Antoine," he introduced and then asked: "Madame, who did I have the pleasure to help?" She did not know why there was only half a lie on her lips this time.  
"Madeleine – Uh- Madeleine de Winter."

"A pleasure to meet you," the man called Henri said. "Henri d'Autry and my brother, Antoine d'Autry." She did not know why she was so shaken, but it might have something to do with her slip of the tongue. Madeleine had been the name her mother had given to her. Not even Olivier knew this name. 

"I am sorry," she stammered ungainly, "I thank you for your help, but I need to be on my way."

"Of course," Henri replied gallantly. "We would not want to keep you. You might want to see a physician though, for your hand." As if it only occurred to her now – had she not felt the stinging pain on her hand? – she looked down at the profusely bleeding cut on her hand. Instead of exclaiming as any other noblewoman would have, she only nodded shakily and was on her way, while the two men looked after her in curiosity. "She is pretty, no?" Antoine grinned in an unpleasant manner and hit his brother in the side. 

Henri did not reply, but he looked after her for a long while, until she disappeared among the brown-clad masses of the Parisians walking by. "I think she is a most unusual woman," he then mumbled thoughtfully. "There was something about her..."

Milady however, was preoccupied with other thoughts. She had gazed at her bloodied hand for a long while, not really seeing it. Instead, she saw another time and the blood of a man, so garishly red on the beautiful wooden floor. It had been a lie. Thomas had not attempted to rape her that day. She thought of him, for the first time in years, she really allowed herself to think of him. In her eyes he had had nothing of the charm that Olivier had, nothing of his depth and passion but he had been Thomas d'Athos de la Fère and she had respected that. She had not wanted his death, not really, contrary to what Olivier thought of her. But it had been a lie that he had wanted to rape her.

She had been raped when she had been young, quite a few times by men twice her size. Sometimes she thought Sarazin had sent them himself just so he could break her more easily. Anne had never been a girl easily scared, but the rape of these men had left her broken and wanting in some ways that could never be repaired. It left her scared of dark corners, of crowded rooms and of unpredictable situations. Thomas had not been a violent man, yes, he might have been called a gentle man with a love for books and poetry, she surmised. He had not been a bad man either. And yet he had had a bad temper. People called that a quick temper. She had seen it often on men and so she had been on her guard, when he had called her in his writing chamber that day.

"Anne," he'd said and there had been already the anger in his eyes. He had advanced threateningly and he had shouted out all of the accusations that were true in a way, only not the one about her not loving his brother. "I do love him!" she had cried. "You're using him," he had screamed. "I abhor you." And he had come closer quickly and she had felt like she had when Sarazin had sent his men after her. Men who held her down, men who broke her, men who took her body and her mind. Thomas' death had been due to her seeing only those men and she supposed it had been an instinctual reaction more than anything else, yet his death was on her conscience. It had been an accident, but she might as well have killed him intentionally. And yet, what would she have gained from his death? She had gained nothing but a dead brother-in-law, whom she might have grown to respect if not like and a husband, who took her for a lying murderess. If anything, that was what she reproached him for. Not the part where had attempted to hang her from a tree. She had killed and she had not been proud of it and of her lie, but she had not been a murderess up to that point. A seductress, a liar, a thief and a prostitute and all of it together, but not a murderess…he had not wanted to believe her, even while he had said nothing would ever come between them.

Gods, how she had loved him. She had loved him and that had been the truth.

Where had it brought her though? She was at the same point again that she had been so long ago: friendless, with only her savings to survive on and with no one and nothing to keep her company. Of course, she had asked, offered her services to the nobles, but apparently she was still well-known as the king's Mistress. No-one wanted to hire her and so she somehow had to make-do with what she had until she could think of something new. But still, she had to survive for any alternative had always been too terrifying to contemplate. So there was no choice but to keep on going, to keep on living, manipulating, scheming, lying. Well, at least the scheming part was amusing.

Why had she given that man her name though? She supposed he had reminded her of Olivier, in his stance and in his bearing. Some part of her subconscious had wished it to be so and some part of her had wanted to be nothing but truthful to him now. And so she had told this Henry d'Autry her real name, the name that was forgotten and dead, as dead as the mother who had once brokenly whispered it to a girl who had been barely able to reach a door handle. "Madeleine, I am dying." And that had been the last time anyone had used that name.

Milady shook her head and squared her shoulders.

To her surprise, someone was already knocking on the door of her grimy room.

"The prostitutes are a floor down," she informed the man acidly.

He ignored her, clearly a servant, always used to petty commands and comments. "Are you Milady de Winter?"

Instantly on her guard, she sized him up. The fine clothes, the expensive leather boots – he was no ordinary servant. She fingered her dagger in her pocket. "That depends who is asking," she replied coolly.

Unfazed, the man looked at her, unimpressed by her cold voice.

"The queen is expecting you, Milady de Winter."

"The Queen?" 

Unfazed, the servant kept on regarding her. "Yes, Madame."

She did not quite know what to make of it, she supposed, as she walked after the servant to the carriage already waiting for her – and still, there was a knife hidden between the folds of her skirt if this were a trap instead. She had made enough enemies for herself over the years for it to be a real option. She wondered what the Queen could possibly want from her – she was long past fear anyway. 

Would she want to sentence her to death, now that the king was dead and Milady was only a foul creature of the past that had somehow come back to life and made itself known? Maybe Milady's presence in the city had been carried to her by the whispers of the nobles, whom she had offered her assistance to. But Milady was not self-conceited enough to think she was really worth that much to the Queen.

She followed the servant through familiar golden-painted corridors, wondered in an absent-minded way about small changes in decoration here and there. Even if years had passed since she had last been here, she could remember everything in perfect detail. Her memory had always been astute, too astute maybe – and she flinched just for a second before checking herself as her hands wandered to her throat and she thought about the coarse, rough material of a farmer's rope around her neck.

The Queen was standing at a window in one of the lavish rooms of reception for, Milady noted in amusement, unwanted guests. She had been at court long enough to recognise the room. There were some painted doors, not recognisable to the ordinary man, but oh, she knew that there were soldiers hidden behind, watching their moves, protecting their Queen. She was rather amused that the Queen would think her that openly dangerous.

As they came in, the Queen Regent turned around. She had aged well, some wrinkles around her eyes the only indication that some years had gone by. Milady wondered idly if she herself had aged well, also. For all her vanity in younger years she rarely made so much effort anymore: she had some styles she knew how to wear and she knew that she looked good in them, so what was the point? There was no one she would want to give her an eye anyway, only – but she quashed that thought immediately and instead pasted a neutral smile on her face.

"Milady de Winter." The Queen's voice was cold.

"Your Majesty." She bowed, not low enough and she knew that it irked the Queen.

"So you are still alive," the Queen noted.

Milady didn't reply and waited for the discomfort that promptly arose at her silence on the Queen's face. She had always been easy to unsettle.

Somehow, however, Milady had not been prepared for the next question.

"Who are you?"

"Milady de Winter, Your Majesty," she said blandly. "My husband died in England and-"

"No, no, I know that," the Queen cut her off. "You are the Comtesse de la Fère, the Musketeer's Athos' wife. I know as much. You cannot fool me anymore."

Milady froze, unprepared for the fresh wave of pain that came with hearing Athos' name spoken aloud. "Well, you do seem to have good contacts to the Musketeers to know such details," she replied quickly and at the way the Queen's eyes widened, she had caught the hidden insinuation. But suddenly she laughed and Milady, once again, was startled, but hid it well. It seemed the Queen had grown.

"I can see why the Cardinal did employ you," the Queen mused, instead.

Milady bowed. "I am your tool, if you should wish it, Your Majesty."

Surprise flashed through the blue eyes. No one had taught the Queen to hide her emotions quite as well as Milady could hide hers and Milady knew, that she had hit the reason she was there dead center.

"Very well," the Queen finally said. "I do require your services."

Milady wondered whether the missions she would be given would turn out to be suicidal ones- a kind of revenge for Louis' public act of treason – but she was mostly glad that from now on she would be able to pay the rent. She did wonder though why the Queen thought to call on her out of everyone.

"You can rely on me," she offered instead.

The Queen smiled, unbothered. "I doubt that, but nonetheless I shall call on you. Be prepared for my orders."

Milady knows that was her cue to leave and she did so, bowing once again before leaving. When she was nearly at the door, a question made her turn: "Did you love the king?"

Milady measured the Queen with a gaze that would have cost anyone else their head. "Did you?"

There was something brittle about the icy smile she received in return. Milady recognised it well from the times she had used a smile like that herself. The Queen's eyes were hard like blue gems.

"Did you love your husband?"

Something flashed through Milady's eyes then and she smiled, tightly, too tightly. "I do not think replying to that question is part of my employment criteria, your Majesty."

The Queen regarded her silently and her face was hard to read. "Be careful with your words," she reminded and then swept out of the room. At the doors, Milady was surprised to see the man from earlier that day, the man, who had helped her up when she had slipped on the street, the one called d'Audry with the light eyes.

"You work here?," she questioned.

"I am part of the palace guard," he replied automatically. "This is a remarkable coincidence." There was something incredulous in his eyes, as he stared at her and Milady realised that he must have heard the last parts of her conversation with the Queen, as the door had already been open by then.

"You must be mad, talking that way to her Majesty" he gasped out.

Milady decided to drop all pretenses of being a nice and demure noble Lady. "You must be mad, Madame," she said pointedly, reminding him of his position.

"Of course," he muttered, his eyes downcast and she looked at him and she did not know why she ever had felt the need to give him her real name: a slip of the tongue she had regretted the moment if had occurred. There were moments when she was still, startlingly, behaving like a human person, a normal woman and she hated herself every time it happened. She was not a weak person, ready to spill all her secrets only because she saw a man that had eyes remarkably like her husband. Madeleine, the girl she had once been, so long ago, had been weak. Anne, the girl who had fallen in love with a Comte far above her station, had been weak. But she was not weak anymore. She was not weak and she had not felt human in years. He is nobody, she thought, and she didn't even know: was she thinking of her husband or of that stranger, the palace guard?

Athos used to guard the palace sometimes, when the Musketeers were called upon for that duty, she remembered with a sudden ache. It could be him standing in front of her, looking at her, but it was not and she felt as brittle as a dead branch for a moment, ready to snap, ready to break – but oh no, she would never break. Not she. Did she even know herself anymore?

"Take me home," she ordered more sharply than she had intended to. D'Audry looked at her and for a moment defiance flashed across his face. "Of course," he replied and the "Madame" he attached carried a hint of obstreperousness with it, but she did not reprimand him.

The disappointment Athos' face so often carried when he looked at her was painted on the face of that palace guard and so she instead looked away. The way back to her rented flat was a blur as Paris flew by. There was some constricting pain in her chest: Did he even think of her? Did he miss her? The fact that he had not been at the crossroads should have been answer enough.

She wondered when exactly she would be able to accept it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will keeping on calling her "Milady" for a while, because I think the Milady persona and the Anne persona have some differences - even though they are of course the same person.


	3. L'ange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are no fairytales in this world - Milady has learned her lessons long ago.

**L'ange**

She slipped back into her old role with ease and there was some part of her which delighted at the secrets, the hushed words and the role play that came with it. As a girl, she had never been happier than the times when she had come to see the procession of the masks at the _carnaval_ in Montmartre. She did not quite know what had delighted her most about it – maybe the fact that they had been allowed a respite from their daily toil on that day, maybe the fact that carnaval also meant the grimy black days of winter found an end and maybe also the chance to be someone for a day they were not. Even as an adult, when she had been able to visit some of the masquerade balls the nobles were so fond of, she had delighted in them. Maybe that was why she was so fond of those schemes and games?

The queen did call on her regulary, every week or so. Sometimes she had her run smaller errands – petty things like updating her on the gossip on the streets or verify the reports her employees brought her – the state of the latest city development projects or the conditions of Paris' poorhouses. She needed to know how her populace was doing, the Queen had quite patiently explained, seeing that she did not wish there to be any energy wasted on uprisings in the city and sometimes her petitioners let the money meant for the city development instead disappear in their own pockets. The Queen knew quite well what light such corruption could cast on herself in the eyes of the common people.

"So why would you trust me to report to you truthfully about their misgivings?" Milady had queried, curious.

"Because you have everything to lose. You would never betray me if it did not benefit in some way, and seeing as I am the Queen, betraying me would mean a certain death. They, however, are members of the most noble families of this country. They are not as dependent on me as you are. They know quite well that I need their riches. But if I know that they are neglecting their duties it is a necessary leverage for me over them. So no, I truly am not afraid of you betraying me." The Queen had smiled, a sharp smile and then continued.

"You meant to leave France, did you not?" There had been something curious in her eyes. "And yet you did return. So this country must mean something to you that you would not betray."

Milady had bowed, not giving herself away even when she herself knew quite well whom she had not wanted to betray - and it had not been France - and had gone off to do what the Queen wished. And in a mere space of a week she had uncovered that the Comté du Noyon spent the money meant for the development of roads on the construction of a Palais not far from the Royal Palace. The Queen, face grim, had had him removed from his position immediately, sending him back to his family and removing any chances of their clan to retain a powerful position at court.

Milady remained hidden in the shadows and watched, in a twisted kind of satisfaction, as the young noble was escorted to a carriage, still loudly protesting.

The Queen came to join her, looking at her intently. "You enjoy this," she observed.

Milady was caught off-guard: had her face really given away what she was thinking?

Carefully, she replied: "My upbringing has taught me that corrupt noblemen are the bane of society."

The Queen smiled. "I am glad that you would say so." Then she exited the room in a flurry of silk and her handmaidens rushed to join her. Milady remained in a low bow until the Queen had disappeared. Then she scoffed. She was no benevolent angel and if that was what the Queen wanted her to turn into, she would gladly decline.

When d'Audry, who had become her regular escort to and fro the palace, came to collect her, she was still scowling inwardly.

"Pleasant weather, Madame," he remarked, drawing her out of his thoughts. The two of them were on fairly reserved terms. D'Audry still seemed to hold a grudge for the way she had treated him the first time she had seen him in the palace. Milady mostly did not mind and she mostly did not speak much to him, but on that day she decided to humour him: "A bit cold for my tastes. And the city does seem especially dark during winter. I'd rather be in the countryside if I could choose."

It had been a biting comment, but he did not seem to mind and instead continued on. "I concur, Madame. My family holds a part of Angoumois and I do confess to having enjoyed the countryside more than I do enjoy life in the city, yet my parents saw it fit to send me and my brother here to serve our Queen. Which region do you hail from, Madame?"

Milady, amused, registered that even though he originated from a minor noble family his standing was far nobler than hers was by way of her birth, and yet, he called her Madame. There was something about the irony she could appreciate. But then she registered his question properly and oh, it was painful to think about Pinon or la Fère, but she had ever been only properly in the countryside there and so she must not slip up.

"A part of Île-de-France that I wager you would not know, though I have not been there for a long time," she replied evasively and yet only the thought of it made her hurt: the lush green vegetation and the pleasantly warm summers and even the chill of the cool winters, ice coating the trees and glittering enticingly in the pale hours of morning. How different it was to face the winters from the inside of a château rather than in dismal, grey Paris!

D'Audry seemed to recognise that she did not want to talk about it, but he looked at her oddly – which noblewoman would not brag about her family's holdings if she had the chance? But he put it down to her thinking him ignorant and so he quietly fumed, yet held open the carriage door for her nonetheless. She was infuriatingly arrogant and yet she enticed him nonetheless. There was freshness about her that none of the other women at court seemed to possess. Yet she was far above his station as he knew, and so he heeded his duty and did not attempt conversation again.

"Joyeux Noël," he called out to her as she descended from the carriage. "Will you be attending mass at Saint-Séverin tomorrow, Madame?" Milady had naturally rented rooms in the more respectable part of the city now. Playing the part of a friend of the Queen's, part of her cover, could not come with her living in the squalors of the poor. As she did not reply, he blundered on self-consciously. "Pardon, Madame. I live around the corner, that is all, so I assumed that you would also be attending mass at Saint-Séverin."

Milady, knowing what the outlook on anyone not attending church was, nodded indifferently. "Of course."

Joy lit up his face at that prospect and Milady realised just how painfully young he still was. "Good evening then, Madame."

"Good evening," she echoed and watched as the carriage rounded the corner.

Then she let herself in her empty chambers and had her servant, Marie, prepare a hot bath.

Dozing in the warm water, she let her fingers curl through her hair and inevitably, she thought of him. Christmas in Pinon had been a joyous affair – they had had their own hand-made crèche and wooden figures around it. She had delighted in admiring them for hours, rarely having had something so fine she could call her own. And while the village church had been small and nothing special, the people had delighted in celebrating mass together with their Comté. Athos had persisted on this, listening to the peasants' plights particularly carefully on that night and giving out small gifts for them there and then. She had adored him for that as had the people themselves also.

Most-beloved Comté as he had been, she mused darkly. She wished she could turn time back to those times in the church, candles glowing golden, the sweet smell of wax filling the air and people's murmuring voices filling the air as they sung of Christmases past and coming. She remembered that she had first come to see him at Christmas mass, so many years ago.

Jehan and she had been at the mass, naturally, like any god-abiding citizen and the people had welcomed them friendly enough, the two strangers who claimed to be brother and sister. She had woven their story well enough so no one would have questioned why they have moved from their home. Protestants have persecuted us, they had wailed and they had been taken in graciously. Within weeks, however, she had increasingly become bored with Jehan, as he wailed in the evening about how he should never have betrayed the church. Milady had never considered it a good fortune to have been taken in by nuns while still a young girl. They considered it their religious duty, she considered it hell. Scrubbing the floors and peeling the vegetables until her fingers were raw, praying until she was hoarse, getting up in the middle of the night to pray some more and to shiver in the cold of morning mass.

Maybe Paris had always been too deeply ingrained within her. She breathed this city, as dank and filthy it might often be, but she breathed it and she had always considered it her home. And how she had her missed her freedom in the convent! She considered the words of the nuns of the merciful god to be anything but honest, could they not see how the poor of Paris died in squalor? Where had god been during the hard years in which she had sold her body as a child prostitute on the streets of Paris and had begged for just a scrape of bread? Milady did not consider herself particulary religious after that experience anymore. And so she had no qualms about convincing the young priest Jehan to escape the convent along with her. And so his wails of regret had been nothing she had enjoyed hearing. So she had taken to spend more time with the common people of Pinon, who seemed to whisper of their new Comté in awe, as he were some kind of god.

She had been rather skeptical and had told them so, asking if he was not a nobleman and if noblemen as a rule did nothing but consider the peasants scum underneath their boots. And yet they had persisted on him being some divine being, which did only good and did not know any bad thought.

Then, during that Christmas Mass, she had seen him and she had seen how gracious and yes, good, he had behaved to the people. And she had become enthralled in spite of herself, admiring him like all the others admired him. He truly was unlike any nobleman and she had looked him over again and again, until he had looked back and she had blushed. Honestly blushed – she had not been able to recall the last time it had been so.

She had slipped away on that day before he could have spoken to her because she had feared that she would make a fool of herself. But on that day, lying in bed and not listening to anything Jehan said, she had imagined him in her mind: a young, tall man with dark hair and eyes so blue they reminded her of the one time she had come to see the sea. The golden hue of the candlelight had surrounded him and he had truly seemed like some divine being. And in that moment she had decided she would make him hers, no matter what it took.

And look what good it had done them, she thought bitterly, as she finally slipped out of the water, which had long since become cold.

Why was she still so obsessed with him? He was no divine being. A divine being wouldn't have tried to hang her, would have listened to her pleas instead. And he had made clear what he thought of her time and time again. Maybe the trouble had always been the pedestal they had placed each other on - there were no angels in this world. Instead it was harsh and cold and full of people who tried to murder each other without giving it a second thought.

What a Christmas indeed! It suddenly occurred to her that it would be the first one without even the thought that he was still waiting for her. All those years it had been a comfort to know that he was still in love with her. But now he had made his stance clear.

Milady squared her shoulders and swiped angrily at the wetness clouding her eyes - what good would that do her?

*** 

 

And in a village, far away, Athos was also contemplating Christmas. Sylvie was busy preparing food, the peasants were busy decorating and he was settling his baby daughter to sleep.

And for just a moment, his treacherous thoughts strayed far from that village and he remembered one Christmas evening, long ago and far away, when he had seen a woman who had resembled nothing short of an angel as she had stood there, gazing at him curiously in the golden light of the church and for that treacherous moment, he wished time could stop and turn just so he could gaze upon her for only one more time.


	4. La illusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lately, she has been wondering whether she is turning into Athos.

**La illusion**

 

The pattern continued for a good few months much in the same manner. Milady would find out delicacies about noblemen and the Queen Regent would do her best to set the wrongs right. She told Milady explicity whom to scrutinise and intentionally left out a few candidates who, while corrupt, were also inherently loyal to the Queen. It was an intelligent move on her part. Milady admired the shrewdness of that thought: The Queen was thus able to remove persons she disliked brandishing their corruption, but she did nothing to touch her own associates. The people still loved her for it, because, a king or a queen who did just anything corrupt nobles seemed like something straight out of a fairytale.

Milady, never having been idealistic herself – she had never had the chance to be – approved of the Queen's actions. Well, mostly. Sometimes the Queen behaved too philanthropic regarding her defeated enemies – she stripped them of their position at court but still let them retain a lot of their old privileges. Milady disapproved and one day at an audience was bold enough to speak up.

"You should not turn your back to the snake, who has bitten you," she pointed out.

The Queen laughed, startling them both. None of them could recall an occasion wherein they had made the other laugh. "Such a philosophical statement. I would not have expected that from you, Milady de Winter."

"I surprise myself occasionally too," Milady remarked impulsively and then bit her tongue. Had that been a joke?

The Queen looked as surprised as she felt. "I did not know you had a sense of humour either."

Milady, having caught herself, simply shrugged and smiled blankly.

"Anyway, Your Majesty, I think it would be prudent to be harsh when dealing with them. They now harbour negative feelings towards the crown."

The Queen smiled and turned to face the window. Some sunbeams splayed golden highlights on her hair. "Thank you for your advice. I shall take that into account."

Once back out on the streets, she couldn't help but wonder, mostly about herself. The Queen was a woman who knew who to handle power, and she, Milady, was only a tool, not much more. When she had been the King's mistress she had developed a certain grudging fondness for the man, and she was surprised to find herself thinking about the Queen the same way. As …a friend? She had not had a friend in so long, she did not even understand the concept of friendship anymore. Everyone who had claimed to be her friend had in the end stabbed her in the back. Plus, a Queen was certainly not a suitable candidate for anything even remotely similar like a friendship.

She had no friends, nothing to love or to look forward to in her life. That was the way she could live. She could deal with it – it had always been about surviving, nothing more. The moments with Athos shone golden in a lusterless life. Maybe that was why it hurt so much to think about it.

Comté de Nemours was the next man on the Queen's seemingly endless list. Milady had trailed past the man and his associates for long afternoons now. She had always taken care not to be seen, using different disguises. Still, it was growing somewhat tiresome. Apparently the man had nothing to hide or he was so careful about it that it might take her another year to find out more. Hidden in the shadows of some stately buildings she watched the Comté and his entourage cross the Seine. He was awfully fond of walking, that man. And walking through the city of Paris, which was odd in itself. Every other noble took a carriage, seeing that it was considered the poor man's fate to walk. Additionally, walking through the city of Paris was not like taking a walk through the palace garden – it was dirty, it stunk horribly and there was always someone looking for trouble.

So yes, it was decidedly odd that the man was so fond of taking walks through the city. Milady rolled her eyes. He had to hide something. If only she could work out what it was. However, he never seemed to stop anywhere in particular, only to chat here and there.

She followed them across the Seine and was suddenly held up by someone loudly shouting her name.

"Milady de Winter! What a surprise." It was Antoine d'Audry, the brother of "her" palace guard, Henri d'Audry, who had taken to sticking to her like a sore thumb whenever she was on a visit to the Queen. Antoine worked as an overseer for the central Royal finance authority. However, he seemed to be working only when he felt like it, judging by how often he hung around the rafters' meeting point just below the Pont Neuf. She could smell alcohol on his breath. He was inappropriately close to her. She could not afford any distractions and was already losing sight of the Comté –

"I don't have time," she told the man brusquely and attempted to march past him. Too late, the Comté had seen her. Attempting to behave as normally as possible, she shoved Antoine aside, commenting snidely about the commoners' digressions getting worse and worse each day, walked past the Comté, giving him a benevolent nod – the stare she received in return was icy and his returning nod was only bordering on polite- and she did not stop walking until she had crossed the bridge all the way to the other side. There, she exhaled heavily. Trust something like that to happen! Silly drunk, that Antoine d'Audry.

She had no desire to cross the Comté's path again after that unfortunate incident, so she slipped away alongside the river, through the less savoury parts of the city. She was not afraid. As a young girl she had played alongside the river and had known each and every of the rough rafters of the river, the pocket-thieves, the dyers and the poor prostitutes, who lived there by name. They in turn had let her be, often giving her a piece of bread to sustain her through the worse days. She was grateful to the scum of the society more than anything. Scum stuck together, after all. That had been before Sarazin had got a hold of her, before things had turned from bad and worse…

Then, weaving through the usual commotion, she saw something unusual: A rich man attempting not to stick out. And stick out he did, like a sore thumb. She quickly hid in the shadow of a crumbling hut.

Something about the man struck her as familiar. Then the pudgy red face registered with her – it was Jean, the Royal food taster. She peered through a knothole into the hut he had disappeared in. Another man entered through the door and Milady nearly gasped, when she recognised the Comté.

"Finally!" Jean gasped. His red face was shining with sweat in the dim candle light of the inside of the hut. "I came here every third day, as you requested. But you only show up in person after weeks and sent your underlings to me all the other times! Do you know how difficult it is to escape undetected from the palace?"

The Comté shrugged, indifferent. He was a tall, haggard man in his mid-fifties with a stern face and bulging eyes. "I had to make sure no one followed me before I could meet you in person. And that took some time. Weeks, like you said."

"You are paranoid," the other laughed.

Again, the Comté gave no reaction. "Is everything set in motion?"

"Yes," the smaller man nodded. "Today everything will be perfect. I have already taken the antidote, so I will be fine."

"Good," the Comté's face was twisted with sick pleasure. "I will enjoy the news."

Then the food taster gave a small vial to the Comté and, after another nod, they both left the little hut to walk in opposite directions. Milady's heart was pounding. Carefully, she slipped out of her hiding place and tugged a small beggar boy aside, speaking rapidly in Argot, the dialect of the beggars and thieves.

"Entends, garçon, I need a small vial from that man's right pocket. For one Louisdor."

The boy nodded and ran off. He was good, Milady thought. She was apt at recognising stealth and agility when she saw it. And she was right: no ten minutes later he handed her a small glass vial.

"They saw me, but I escaped before they could do anything. And it was ten of them." He was clearly proud of himself, blue eyes shining in a grubby face, smiling a wide smile. Some of his teeth were missing. Milady, feeling oddly generous, gave him more than the one Louisdor.

Then she looked at the glass vial. It was … empty.

A horrible feeling overcame her. She had been…tricked? She, the mastermind of manipulation had been tricked? That meant –

She ran, heart beating, skirts flying, still with the horrible feeling that she was too late.

There had been poison in the vial, she was sure of it. And the food taster was a trusted man. He would be able to slip it practically into anything the Queen ate or drank. And he would do it now – it was almost time for the afternoon luncheon.

Dawn was falling quickly and the rays of the dying sun painted the streets red. She thought of blood and of despair – no, no, no – she must not fail – and still she hurried on, the sound of her heartbeat the only thing thundering through her ears along with the thought that she had been deceived. Maybe it had only been a precaution, maybe they had not really seen her, maybe it was only their paranoia, yet the fact remained that the food taster of the Queen was carrying poison to the palace.

Again, her feet thundered across the road and farther and farther on.

She jumped onto a carriage of a nobleman, brandishing the royal seal, telling the driver to hurry to the palace.

And there- she had arrived – and her heart beat, beat, beat to a dizzy tune. She did not want this Queen to die. It was a good Queen. And Athos would not want her to die. And she knew how the Musketeers adored her, how Aramis loved her. She knew all that. And she did not want to care, but she knew Athos did, and she did, for some reason, too. She wanted to be doing the right thing for once, so so badly. Would he look upon her differently in life after that one maybe? Would he ever know?

She struggled with the guards at the entrance gate, who did not know, but recognised the seal, and after a moment's hesitation let her through. One of them ran with her, concerned that she was an intruder after all and on the other hand worried about her anxiety. Her hair flew out of its neat hairdo and she even lost her coat.

Some more guards tried to keep her, but she would have none of it, waving the seal. And finally, she had arrived at the room where the luncheon was held. The Queen Regent was receiving some high-standing guests today. The guard at the door held his sword out. "Stop!" he commanded, but by then some of the five guards who accompanied her by now were worried too.

"It's very urgent," one of them said, and finally, the guard opened the door.

There was the Queen, amidst her guests, just lifting a cup of cocoa to her lips.

Milady did not hesitate.

In a flying leap she jumped across the room and prayed that she would not be too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My French is actually horrible. So if there is anything wrong with the few words of French I am brave enough to use, please let me know ;)


	5. La trahison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treason can come in one form or the other.

**La trahison**

Milady could only stare at the Queen in dazed surprise as they both lay on the floor. She had succeeded. Hot relief coursed through her, making it hard to breathe. The Queen was staring at her in bewilderment and a little fear.

"It was poisoned," Milady gasped. "Your cocoa."

Even before they were back on their feet, a voice droned: "Why would it be poisoned? I tested it myself. Would I not be dead then?"

It was Jean, the food taster, of course. Milady carefully got to her feet. Virtually every palace guard was in the room by now, pointing their sword at her.

"He had an antidote before," she said, calmer now. "It is a poison that can be counteracted before drinking it."

"How does she know things like these?" A man accused, judging from his clothes clearly a man of the church. Milady lifted an amused eyebrow. "Most of these poisons are used in Rome," she pointed out archly. Maybe that was not a smart move, but she could not help the comment either.

"Seize her!" Jean shouted. "She might have tried to murder you, Your Highness!"

The Queen then did something Milady had not expected. She herself had fully expected to end up in chains, however, Anne of Austria fixed a hard stare on the food taster. "I believe she just saved my life."

At that, she motioned to the guards who had Jean kneel. "I cannot prove it now," the Queen said and she looked at the puddle of brown liquid, all that remained of her cocoa. "But I promise you, we will see who is the real culprit." Some tense moments passed where everyone spoke up at once.

"She really saved your life, Your Majesty." A calm voice suddenly made everyone quieten. And there was Aramis of the Musketeers. "This frog," he motioned to a green, struggling tiny frog on his hand, "is used by the Palace's physician for examinations of new concoctions. I just gave him some of the cocoa." As he spoke, the frog spasmed on his hand in what was clearly terrible pain, seized some more and then was still. "It is dead," Aramis spoke gravelly.

"Thank you," the Queen Regent sighed. "I am glad to be able to count on the help of the Musketeers." Then she turned around and Milady could see how the event had shaken her. There was a kind of deep betrayal written on her face.

"Why would you do this, Jean? The King and I have trusted you for years."

"My king is dead!" the small, round man gasped out. His face was red and twisted. "My king is dead and you are nothing but a Spanish witch with a bastard child! Do you think I don't know anything about you and –"

At that, Milady kicked him in the ribs, so hard, that he could not speak any farther and was only silently gasping in pain. At the inquiring looks of the bystanders, Milady lifted her chin: "I will not stand for anyone who insults our Queen Regent in this way," she pointed out haughtily.

"Huzza!" They chorused. "Long Live She!"

The Queen had everyone leave then. As for Jean, she merely said coldly: "I want him executed in the morning." The guards nodded and dragged the protesting small man with them. And then silence reigned.

"You saved my life," Aramis, who had remained behind spoke up then, "and now you save the life of my Queen. How could we ever thank you?" The Queen bowed her head. "We thank you both, Milady de Winter."

"There is no need to thank me," Milady mumbled. She, for once, was at a loss of words. It was such a rare thing for her to receive genuine thanks for saving someone's life and she did not know what to say. She was not Athos for Heaven's sake! "Maybe I am turning into Athos," she mumbled self-deprecatingly and she had not meant for anyone to hear, yet Aramis gave her a gentle smile: "Would that be such a bad thing? I do think we need more of Athos-ness in this world."

Milady's answering smile was bitter. "Your Highness," she addressed the Queen, "I fear the Comté de Nemours has a part in this also. But I do not have any proof."

The Queen sighed and she crossed her arms as if to protect herself against some cold wind. "He is very influential and his family is old and rich. They alone make up a fifth of the crown's loans. It would be very hard to remove him from his position at court, if not impossible. That is why I had hoped you might some proof for infidelity…just so that I might have some leverage over him. However, and I shall speak frank to you, I did not expect that he would stoop so low just so he could get rid of me. This is a harsh country, where everyone seems to hate the Spanish Queen."

"We don't hate you," Aramis hastened to assure her. Anne of Austria seemed pale and shaken, as she stared out forlornly at the grey March weather outside the window. Milady thought she seemed frail in that moment and very much alone, a feeling that she knew only too well.

Never been having one to offer words of comfort, she bowed low. "I shall take my leave."

Aramis nodded at her. "Thank you," he merely said. The Queen turned around and Milady was surprised to see genuine warmth aimed at her. "You are good person," she said.

Unprepared for the weight of these words, Milady struggled to find a retort.

"You don't know me," was all she said.

"Athos would be proud of you," Aramis added. Milady felt like viciously lashing out at him – he knew what kind of effect any mention of Athos would have, nevermind saying that the man would be proud of her.

"I doubt that very much," she said tightly. "Please allow me to take my leave."

***

Athos would indeed have been proud of her, had he known. Indeed, in that moment, in a small village far away from Paris he was once again wondering about her – what was she doing? How was she doing? The monotony of village life did not agree with him and he had far too much time on his hand to think about her. He had taken up work as an apprentice for the blacksmith, who operated his smithy in the village, servicing some of the noble estates around there. He taken up the work in order not to stand out – they could have survived on his savings for a long time, but that would have aroused suspicion – and so that his hands had something to do.

He loved Sylvie, he really did, but sometimes he wondered just how much he loved her. He found himself looking at her, comparing her to the one who was far above all others and somehow always found her lacking. In what, he could not have said. How he hated himself for thoughts such as these. Sylvie did not deserve a man like him. She was good, gentle and kind and a wonderful mother.

He watched her, standing in the door-frame, as she walked around the room, humming a little tune to baby Cateline. Sunrays danced through her wild locks and painted highlights on her face. Her dimples stood out when she laughed. He hated himself for not being able to love her as she deserved.

"Athos, darling," she called, smiling at him. "Why do you look so forlorn?"

"It's nothing," he replied taciturnly and he wished he could tell her the truth. Why had he fallen for her so fast and so quickly? The reply to it was not something he wished to hear, so he did not like to think on it much: If there is a hole in a soul, it thirsts for something to fill that hole after all. He had loved her just so he did not have to think about the hole anymore. But it had been only an illusion to think that he could ever fill that festering emptiness within him that she had left: with her wit, her sarcasm, her beauty and her charm. And yes, with her love for him.

He knew she had loved him. Beautiful, darling Anne had loved him so much. Beautiful, darling Anne dancing through flower meadows and weaving forget-me-nots through her hair. Beautiful, darling Anne, always concerned for him. He remembered lying in her arms like a helpless child, while she had stroked his hair out of his face. He remembered that feeling of helplessness quite vividly – he had given his everything to her and killing her had left him with nothing.

"You are a wonderful mother," he told Sylvie heavily and tried to imbue his sentence with heavy meaning, just so that she would never notice that the I love you was conveniently missing. He tried so hard to love her and he hated himself every day more because he could not love her any more than he would have loved a friend.

"Thank you, Athos," she replied, but she was frowning and there was a shadow dancing through her dark eyes.

Stopping at the threshold on her way to the bed chambers, she did not look at him, as she whispered: "I wonder when you will ever tell me that you love me."

Athos watched as the door fell shut and the resounding thud reverberated within him. It felt like a drop into a canyon so deep he could not see the ground at all. He direly needed a bottle of wine so he could forget. And as he thought so, his fingers brushed over the glove that he carried in his belt – her glove, left at the crossroads – as if he could ever forget. There was no escape for him and there never had been.

"I hope you are well, Anne," he whispered and he thought of her kisses and her scent and his mouth tasted like ash and like betrayal. And still the wind sung her name to him.


	6. La solitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paris is a tangled webs of intrigues, as we are about to discover.

_She dreamed. Athos was in her dream, as he was wont to be. And again, in this dream he left her hanging from that tree and he also did not do anything when Catherine pulled a new noose over her head, leaving her to fall to her death, breathless, as the noose drew tighter around her neck. Athos stood by, watching, his eyes colder than death. “You deserve it,” he said, “you poison me.”_

And then, just as she was about to die, she woke up, gasping horribly, bathed in sweat.  
She pulled back the covers of her bed, not able to fall asleep anymore and drew the curtains back. A beautiful dawn heralded the beginning of a sunny day. Spring was starting to approach, sang the bird from the roof opposite. She relished his call, clinging to that thought of spring with all her might. Spring meant green meadows and sunshine and blooming flowers and the sweet promise of a warmer world. Winter made her freeze to her bones these days.  
Marie, her maid, had spoken freely to her a few days ago: “Madame, you need to eat more. You look like a ghost.” 

Milady had not begrudged her for it: she did feel like a ghost more than anything else. She did not feel like a truly living being, at least, but then it had been so long since she had felt like anything remotely human. Laughing, even smiling in genuine joy was nothing that came easily to her. Was there anything to be genuinely happy about anyway?

She hated him with a sudden viciousness that made her remember the days after he had tried to hang her. Days, she remembered only in a blur: the feel of the earth underneath her bare feet, the smell of grass in her nose, just after she had been saved from death had been some of the sweetest sensations she had ever encountered. But just mere moments later, after the relief had abated, the pain had come and it had been like nothing she had ever encountered before. Oh, she had known how it felt to be betrayed, to be stabbed in the back – but there had been no one who had ever hurt her like this. Why? Because she had never trusted anyone like that before. Olivier d’Athos, Comte de la Fère had told her that nothing would ever come between them. He had said so and she had believed him.

Killing Thomas had been an accident: she thought about it again. Thomas had, after shouting at her of her betrayal and her deceit held her up against the wall with his fist alone. She had thought he might kill her, had assumed he would go so far as rape her. It had been a reflex more than anything else. She should have waited to see how the situation would unfold, should have calculated – but she had been young and rash back then, ready to assume the worst.  
“I am sorry!” she had yelled at Olivier. “He attacked me! I love you, please, please, please believe me…” He had only turned away as if in shock, not even listening to her.

“I hate you”, she had sobbed, once released from that rope. “I hate you,” she had yelled into the wide empty grasslands of Île-de-France. “I hate you!” And then, quieter: “I trusted you. I trusted you!” She had repeated it like an empty mantra, numb to the cold wind that tore at her. There had been no reply to her screams, only the stream had murmured nearby and the birds had sung their praises.

Anne touched her cheeks and found that there were tears on them. Firmly, she closed the window and wiped the tears away, becoming Milady once again.  
And yet, even if her Milady persona was untouchable and emotionless, she could not deny that she felt the sting of loneliness on that day as she walked through the streets, ever conscious of her surroundings. She had not ventured out on the streets for a while, trying to keep up the pretense of a noble, but today she was tired and, dressed in plain garb, believed foolishly no one would recognise her. The hunt after Comté de Nemours had stopped for the Comté had not done anything else suspicious so far and for today, there was not much to be done: but she could buy some apples and rejoice in that simple pleasure of wandering around the market stalls, exchanging barbs with the saleswomen.

And yet, that careless slip-up would have consequences, as she happened to pass a carriage. A man looked after her as she wove her way through the crowds and then with a cold voice bade his driver to stop.

“Do you know her, man?” he queried of the man sitting opposite of him.

Antoine d’Audry’s rough face bore an expression of intense concentration. “Ah yes, of course! She’s that noble Lady, who seems to be on friendly terms with the Queen. My brother takes her to and fro the palace. He is a palace guard you see, Sire, and –“

“I did not wish to hear about all the entanglements of your family,” the cold voice of the man cut him off. 

Milady would have turned had she heard that voice: It was no other than the by-now notorious Comté de Nemours, whose orchestrated plans to kill the Queen had gone so badly wrong a mere two months before. 

“I bumped into her on a bridge the day I went to meet-“ he broke off, realising whom he was talking to. Antoine d’Audry was a loyal pawn, but not intelligent for anything else. And yet he had to be careful to keep the man on his side: at the very least he was aware that even if not graced with ample wit, the man was street-smart enough to smell that there was something greater going on. The Comté had approached the man due to his position: the d’Audry family was a clan of minor nobles and as such Antoine had, as the eldest brother, been afforded the position of the head of customs overseeing the river trade on the Seine. He was easy enough to keep satisfied: the Comté had soon enough learned that a good bottle of wine and a few ladies of easy virtue as well as the pretense that he was being elevated into the higher circles made the man as docile as he needed it to be.

Meanwhile, the Comté was preoccupied with the woman: her outer appearance fit neatly to the woman who had allegedly uncovered the foretaster’s plan. He preferred to think of it as Jean’s plan alone: he had taken plenty so his involvement would not be uncovered.

Not only the Comté but also Milady should have taken better notice of the d’Audry family, however. Another brother, the third of the brothers living in Paris, was receiving counsel by none other than L’eminence gris, Cardinal Mazarin himself.

Jehan d’Audry had early in his life devoted himself to the church. But he had always been too crafty and too insidious to remain a small priest and so, over the years, had become one of the Cardinal’s most trusted confidantes. He remained in the belief that the Cardinal shared everything him – which, of course, he did not. Described as a handsome and engaging individual the Cardinal was more skilled than most at pulling strings and handing out favours. Cardinal Richelieu had always been suspected of intrigues and had himself earned a fearsome reputation as a crafty man. The fearsome thing about Cardinal Mazarin was that there was not even the slightest whisper of intrigue about him: he was simply that charming to everyone - no one even dared to whisper of anything untoward. 

Jehan was on his knees before the Cardinal, who inquired: “We seem to have noticed a Lady called Milady de Winter paying quite a lot of visits to the Queen. We hold her in unusual interest for we fear that she might plan something sinister in the guise of innocence. I ask you to find out more about it – we need to protect the Queen Regent from harm at all costs.”

“Of course,” Jehan bowed. He was a slight man, inconspicuous and pale. The only thing that made him stand out was the scar left by an unfortunate contraction of smallpox in his youth. He formed the perfect contrast to the tall, handsome Cardinal. Even at the age of forty and one, his hair remained brown. He liked to style it in fashionable waves and he wore a well-groomed moustache along with it. His quiet, sensible and demure manner had won him the respect of Queen Anne. To be short, he was a man of formidable power and he knew how to wield it.

The arrival of Milady unsettled him: of course he knew who she was and what role she had been playing regarding the late king, and before that, as a spy mistress for Richelieu. She was in the Queen’s employ, the Queen had told him as much, but Mazarin was cautious. He did not trust that woman. She had saved the Queen from certain death, yes, but why? To serve her own ends? He doubted her loyalty, seeing that she had been cast out by this very court before. Plus Comté de Nemours and his schemes…he had not yet been able to find out what drove the man to such actions and he cursed himself for not noticing the crude plan with the poisoned cocoa. Nothing like that would ever happen again, he would make sure of it.

And if it took depositing of Milady de Winter in order to achieve that goal, then so be it.

  


_1650, Outside of Rouen_

There was a fever gripping the village. No one knew the cause, the church was powerless and even the physicians stood by helplessly.  
People were afraid and kept their doors closed and their loved ones by their sides.

Athos peered through the gaps of the door at the grey February weather outside and marvelled at the absolute lack of people on the small street leading past their house.

“This is getting ridiculous,” he stated lowly. “We can’t hide in here forever.”

“Would you want to expose your daughter to danger?” Sylvie asked fiercely. “You have never seen from your château what a wave of sickness like that can do to you. Half my family died of it. You have no idea.”

The words she spat at him were sharp, testimony to the unease that had permeated their relationship for the last months. She had once again asked him whether he loved her; he had been unable to reply save for telling her that he appreciated her very much. She had cried and he had felt like scum, unable to do much but to resort to drinking heavily again. And that, in turn, had led to more fights.

“I do not wish to fight anymore,” he said suddenly, turning around to her.

There were tears in her beautiful brown eyes and he hated that he had put them there.  
“There will always be she, won’t she?” she asked and there was little of the brave woman he had first encountered about her now. “She will always stand between us.” 

Tears cascaded down her face now and he could not stand it anymore. “Hush, hush.” He soothed and took her in his arms. “I am sorry.” She cried and he held her tightly, thinking that she deserved better. 

And Sylvie, as he held her, could not really feel the warmth that his body provided. All she could think about was how alone she felt, even in the company of the man who was supposed to love her.


	7. Entre amis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As odd as it is, Milady finds herself...among friends?

„What is he doing here?“ Antoine d’Audry intoned harshly, when he threw open the door to his and Henri’s shared apartment rooms. His look wandered in-between Henri d’Audry and his other brother Jehan d’Audry. From his wandering eyes and the stench on his breath, it was clear that once again he was inebriated.

“He is my brother, too,” Henri told him, but he was the youngest and it had always been hard to go against his eldest brother’s brutal wrath.

Jehan shot Antoine an icy look. He did not care much for his eldest brother’s drinking and gambling habits; in fact that had been what had driven them apart in the first place. Jehan preferred to think of the three of them all having got different talents: Antoine had the brute strength of their father, Henri the nobleness and kindness of their mother and he himself the shrewdness and intelligence of some distinct ancestor he could not name - shrewdness and intelligence were no attributes of his parents, after all. Jehan had been called a big-head for voicing these thoughts in polite company before, but he did not care much for that anyway. And Henri had also got the looks of their mother, he thought, looking over his young brother fondly: with his black, curly hair and the piercing blue eyes Henri was a joy to behold.

Antoine, he mused darkly, sadly had only received brute strength, but no strength of either character or wit nor of beauty – his ruddy red face was tainted by alcohol abuse and his manner clearly showed in the violent sneer that was perpetually affixed to his face. He tended to behave in a most appalling manner, which was what had led Jehan to break with him in the first place.

“I am here to visit our mutual brother,” he finally intoned coldly. “This is of no concern to you.”

Antoine’s face reddened rapidly.

He was already well on his way to a tantrum, when Henri got up and announced: “In any case, I am going out. I have to bring Milady de Winter to the palace.” Two sets of eyes were suddenly on him.

“About that Milady,” Antoine said predatorily. “Who is she anyway?”

“That would quite interest me, too, actually,” Jehan added drily. “Judging by the way you keep talking about her, I would almost assume her to be your love interest, if I did not know better.”

Henri had blushed and Jehan was once again reminded how young his brother actually was – only twenty and two. “I do not wish to discuss her,” Henri said tacitly and closed the doors in his brothers’ faces. 

There was a moment of silence and then, with an icy glare at Antoine, Jehan fastened his cloak around his somber black soutaine and went off.  
Henri, meanwhile, went to pick up Milady de Winter. In a routine that had become familiar to him he knocked carefully at her door, bade the maid Marie to fetch her mistress and then, when she was stood before him, intoned humbly: “Madame.”  
Milady de Winter took his proffered hand to enter the carriage and, feeling bold, Henri chanced a look at her. She was such a sight to behold: she had to be the most beautiful woman on earth, he surmised. Fair-skinned with dark hair up in a complicated arrangement of braids and piercing green eyes she was the embodiment of all that was beautiful.

Self-consciously he lowered his eyes, but not before he was aware of something like – was that shock? – passing through her eyes as she returned his look haughtily. Henri got up beside the coachman and pondered that, before chastising himself for his stupidity. Maybe, if he had seen Athos de la Fère in person once and had known of his and Milady’s past he would have understood: he had a striking eye colour, that, was of a similar shade to that of the Comté.  
*** 

The Queen actually smiled at Milady, when she arrived.

“It is good to see you,” she greeted pleasantly.

Milady bowed low. “Your Highness,” she intoned quietly. “Sadly I do not have any news of Comté de Nemours, neither do I have uncovered any other traces of corruption among your dependants.”

The smile on the Queen’s face actually grew sunnier. “That is not why I called you here anyway,” she told the other woman. “I actually wished to have you dine with us.” 

“Us?” Milady queried and she was hard-pressed to keep up her stony mask, somewhat afraid of whom the “us” might actually imply.

“Yes,” Aramis, who now served as advisor to the Queen turned the corner. “We wish to thank you for saving our lives.”

“You do not need to thank me,” Milady pointed out calmly. 

“And yet you saved my life once,” Aramis reminded. “And the life of Her Majesty a mere two months ago.”

Milady lowered her gaze. “Athos asked me to save you,” she admitted grudgingly. It was the utmost admission of weakness he would get from her, but she could not have anyone thanking her. She was not Athos, dear God, and she had no wish to imitate him.

Aramis’ gaze had remained warm throughout her admission. “Nonetheless you saved our lives.”

Milady raised her eyes to meet the Queen’s. “Your Highness has even less cause to thank me. A Queen does not need to thank.”

The Queen smiled and again Milady marvelled at her apparent sunny disposition. “But I do wish to thank you. And it does not do well to refuse when a Queen invites you to dine with her, now, does it?”  
Milady, caught off guard, could only nod in dazed surprise.

And, stood in the next room, was another surprise: Constance d’Artagnan looked at her warily.

“Milady de Winter,” she acknowledged.

Milady inclined her head. “Madame d’Artagnan.”

It was awkward, to say the least, but Milady had mastered stranger situations over the years and as such, found herself enjoying the dinner, if only a little. _That_ struck her as odd.

Constance was cautious around her and Milady supposed she could not really blame her. The Queen, however, proved to be a skilled conversationalist and one time, Milady was amazed to find all of them laughing at some joke she had told. It was beyond odd, Milady thought. It was almost as if she were entre amis…among friends? She filed that away for later thought and concentrated on the conversation once more.

“Can you tell no jokes, Milady?” Aramis was asking, mirth sparkling in his eyes. Milady looked at him, again at a loss for words. Athos had once referred to her as a “witty and amusing person”, but she could barely recall that Anne she had apparently once been. She was, once again, quite out of her depth that evening and so, very badly and awkwardly told a joke she had heard in Germany once, about the men and women from the town of Schilda, who had once built a house with no windows and then had tried to bring the light in by catching the sunlight in huge linen bags. Oddly enough, no sunshine had come out of the bags once opened.

To her surprise, her audience laughed heartily.

“You are a witty woman, Milady,” Aramis told her, laughing gaily.

“Athos used to say that,” Milady remarked impulsively and chided herself for allowing herself to slip up so easily, for thinking in that moment she could trust them. Trust was such a misplaced feeling anyway.

To her quiet relief, no one seemed eager to bring up the subject of Athos anyway, and instead the evening soon drew to a close. And it had not been unpleasant at all. That served to disquieten Milady more than anything else.

As they were leaving the palace, Milady turned curiously to Constance. “Why would you come to a soirée such as this unless Her Highness ordered you to?”

Constance smiled and shook her head. “Her Highness and I are friends. She would not force me to attend. And I know how much you mean to Athos – so I decided to give you a chance. My husband does not approve, but I can make my own choices.”

Milady looked at her silently, wonderingly.

“So far,” Constance spoke, that damning smile never leaving her face, “this has been a pleasant evening, hasn’t it?” Not giving her any chance to reply, she curtseyed and left.

Milady looked after her as she walked away in the quiet Parisian night, and, quietly, she wondered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stories of the citizens of Schilda are very well-known in Germany. They deal with the fictional town of Schilda, wherein its inhabitants do all kinds of strange things. Wikipedia tells me there is something similar in Britain called "The Wise men of Gotham". Correct me if that's wrong :)


	8. La innocence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A realisation that comes a little late, or, does it?

Henri d’Audry did not quite understand the interest his brothers suddenly seemed to have in the friend of the queen, Milady de Winter. While he could admit that there was something unusual about her – starting with the way they had met in the first place, no noblewoman walked around the city by foot – he still did not see how it should interest Jehan or Antoine. 

He shrugged mentally – either way he did not care much for them – and went on to collect the object of his musings, Milady de Winter, from her house.

She looked lovely, he mused, with her stinging green eyes and the green dress she wore that day – like a pale flower outlined sharply against a clear blue spring sky.

She cleared her throat. Realising that he had spent at least half a minute staring at her, Henri blushed furiously and extended his hand to help her into the carriage. Her eyes sparkled in amusement. “Was there anything you wished to say to me?”

“You look lovely, Madame,” he stuttered awkwardly and again blushed with all the confused vigour of all of his twenty and one years.

Milady laughed quietly, a strangely unrestrained sound that would not quite fit to her strict persona.

“I thank you, Monsieur.” Was she mocking him? He could not have said.

Utterly confused, he sat down next to the coachman and decided not to think about her.

Milady, meanwhile, reclined in her seat and smiled. Such an impressionable youth. She quite remembered when Olivier had been young – oh, but Olivier had never been quite so naïve like this young man. Instead he had even at the age of twenty and two had a serious air about him. It had come with him being the heir to a grand estate, having to shoulder all the responsibilities when he had been a mere eighteen-year-old. So no, Henri d’Audry did not have much in common with her husband.  
He was her husband after all, she thought with a sudden viciousness. Her husband and no one could change that, not even little innocent Sylvie. 

Oh but Henri’s eyes – she flinched when she thought about it. He had Olivier’s eyes, they were so similar that each time she looked at him something hurt, deep inside her chest and it made her catch her breath. Having someone in front of her with eyes so similar yet it was not Olivier made her feel pained in a way that she could not have articulated.

Sometimes, late at night, when she allowed herself to think about Olivier, the pain of missing him, of longing for his touch – or maybe, just seeing him for one last time, only one last time, please, please – made her gasp because her chest constricted in pain each and every time. At first, when it had happened, she had wondered if she would get a heart attack, she recalled with a bitter little smile. But it was no heart attack. It was just the pain of losing him that cut so deep.  
He was still hers. He would always be hers before God – and yet, if they were to die, they would at least both be in Hell for what they had done, she thought cynically. Maybe then they could finally be together again, together in agony and pain.  
  
  
  
Athos, in that moment, did not think of her, really. He was tending to Slyvie, who was writhing on the bed, in the throes of a horrible fever.

“Are – you – going back to her?” she gasped.

“Shh, shh, you are delirious,” he whispered and put a wet cloth on her forehead. “Be quiet, everything will be alright.”

“Nothing is alright,” she whispered and she sounded so pained that he felt like the worst man on earth for making her sound like that. “You love her, you always have.”

Athos was silent. He could not find words to deny it to her.

“Leave,” she gasped harshly. “Leave at once.”

“Nonsense,” he said and went back to tending to her. “I am not going anywhere.”

And yet, a few days later, she was back on the road to recovery. And, surprising him, she looked at him from her bed and whispered: “I did mean it.”

“What?” he asked, aghast, rocking their baby daughter to sleep.

“You need to go,” she repeated.

“What, and leave you and our daughter? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Tears were pooling in her eyes, cascading down her face and he saw it was still hard for her to speak. “I always believed in love, Athos. And I don’t feel loved by you. There is nothing in your eyes when you look at me.” She sobbed and spoke in a strangled whisper. “And there is her glove. I know you still keep it. Do you have any idea of the hurt you cause me? It’s like being run through by a sword each time you look at me and I know who you are really thinking of. Please do spare me that pain. I don’t deserve it.”

Athos was silent and finally, he gave a shuddering sigh, burying his head in his hands.

“I am so sorry, Sylvie.”

His heart felt like a wasteland with a deep crack and a single tree planted on top of it. The tree was Slyvie and his daughter; yet there was no water to sustain the tree, nothing but cracked remains of what had once been a healthy garden.  
“She destroys me,” he admitted very quietly, very lowly. He longed for her touch at night and at day, it was a iron-hot longing that burned all sensible thought and put fire into his dead heart. She was the only one who had ever made him feel alive and yet she had brought about his demise as he had brought about hers.

Sylvie sat up shakily. “And yet you long for her,” she accused brokenly and her brown eyes swam with moistness. “You are a sick man, Athos.”

“I am,” he acknowledged, taking her pained accusations in stride, as he had always borne accusations aimed at him in the knowledge, that he deserved each and every one of them.

Sylvie’s tears were drying. “I do not want you to destroy me as she destroyed you,” she observed quietly. “Please, Athos, leave us in peace.”

He had not thought it possible and yet, as he gazed at her and at the small child in his arm, he felt how the cracks within his heart widened still. “I could not bear to lose you.”

Sylvie stood up and, leaning upon a chair for support, shook her head. “I am not you, Athos. I won’t run away from you. But I ask you to please leave. We will be here, if you want to visit.”

And so it was said and Athos did know that no force in the world could ever have her changed her mind. And then, when she had sufficiently recovered and he bade the both of them goodbye to return in two months’ time, he could not feel too much sadness.  
Instead, as he urged his horse into a gallop, away from the village and onto the long way towards Paris, it felt as if his heart had been relieved of a large burden.  
  
  
  
Antoine d’Audry was being deterred from his way by the slight figure of his brother Jehan, who stood in front of the house with a predatory look on his face.

“What do you want, brother?” he growled angrily.

“Just some information,” Jehan smiled unpleasantly.

“What kind of information?” Antoine did not like the way this was going and he urgently needed a drink – his hand were already shaking from the need.

“Why are you so interested in Milady de Winter?” There was a strange glint in Jehan’s dead-looking eyes.

“It is none of your business,” Antoine gave back and wanted to shoulder past Jehan. However, even as he knocked the slight man out of his way, he had to stop again because his brother’s annoying voice grated on: “You will listen to me, Antoine. I do know enough about all your illegal activities to make you lose your position as tax collector.”

That threat made Antoine pause. He did know that his brother was ruthless and cunning. While he did not quite know how to deal with him, he knew that it was not intelligent to let Jehan put his words into action. The money he made “overlooking” a great deal of goods that would have needed to be heavily taxed otherwise was too good to lose.

“What do you want?” he spat out.

“Oh, oh, no need to get so angry,” Jehan purred, seeming more like a sated cat than anything else. “Just tell me about Milady de Winter.” 

“She is of no interest to me,” Antoine finally admitted slowly. “Just the Comté de Nemours.”

“Oh, so you are working for him?”

Antoine cursed when he realised he had run his mouth. “I will make you pay for this Jehan,” he warned unpleasantly.

“I have no doubt,” Jehan smiled derisively. “In any case my patron is also interested in her persona. We believe that she might be working as a double agent and is hired as a murderess.”

Antoine, even if he was slow, could not miss the implications dangling in front of him. “So it was her that day after all who spied on the Comté,” he muttered. 

“Spied?” Jehan’s eyes glinted. “Spied on him doing what?” Antoine merely growled and did not reply. Of course Jehan knew that the Comté was attempting to get rid of the Queen and seeing that the Cardinal did not want this to happen, Jehan would have to do his best to thwart such plans, no matter what he himself thought of the Comté or his foolish imbecile of a brother. In any case, getting rid of Milady de Winter would be beneficial. 

The Cardinal did not like how she was starting to rise in the Queen’s favour and Jehan concurred with his mistrust of her: a Lady like her, who was always double-crossing everyone was too dangerous to keep around after all.

“So then, if she proved to be an annoyance to the Comté and she is proving an annoyance to the Cardinal, let’s get rid of her,” he proposed. “Just imagine what prestige that might earn you in the eyes of the Comté.”

Antoine gave him a suspicious look and growled, which Jehan took as a sound of acquiescence. He honestly wondered how he had come by such an imbecile of a brother.

“I shall have to talk it over with the Comté,” he finally said. 

“Good,” Jehan nodded maliciously. “And then we shall think of a plan together.”  


 

 

It all began with a dead child on her doorstep. Milady heard her maid scream when she opened the door and hurried down the steps.

“What is it?” she asked. “What is it?”

Marie pointed with a shaking, pale finger to the small body and Milady did actually gasp.

Few things still made her feel horror, but the murder of a child was something so unforgiveable in her eyes that she could not help but shudder and gasp.  
It was the small gamin from a few months ago, the gamin whom she had asked to collect the vial from the Comté’s pocket. Milady knelt down next to him. He had been brutally murdered with a knife. For the first time in years, a genuine tear rolled down her face.

“I am sorry,” she whispered and crouched down next to the small body. “I am so sorry.”

A slight sniffle made her jump and turn. There was another small boy, just hidden in the shadows of her garden. He watched her warily. Milady gazed at him and back at the dead body.

“You look so much like him,” she said in wonder.

“They killed him,” he choked out, “I watched them carry him here. He was my brother. But it was me who helped you that day, not him. We just look so similar.”

“I am sorry,” Milady breathed. He watched her distrustfully.

“I promise you, we shall bury him with honour and dignity.” The boy did not speak, all he did was gaze at her accusingly and Milady felt all the guilt of the years press down on her in that moment; as if her wretched life was being laid out of her through the accusing gaze of the child.

She watched in stony silence as her servants came back with a priest, who performed the last rites. The child was buried on the same day with only Milady, her servants and a few street children to watch. All the while, the little boy had not left her side.

He returned with her to her house and then sat opposite of her, staring into the cup of steaming tea they had given him.

“Can you describe the man to me?”

He did so. “A large man, a brute with hands so big.” He indicated them. “He stunk of alcohol and he had a red, horrible face. “The other man called him d’Audry.”

Milady felt how a red rage consumed her. Antoine d’Audry. She should have seen his connection to the Comté sooner, should have done something, should have – Anger was making her feel white-hot, burning inside.  
She crushed the bread she was holding with her fist, completely unaware of what she was doing.

“Tend to the boy,” she ordered Marie , who stared at her, terrified.

“What shall you do?” The child asked.

“I shall avenge your brother,” Milady promised and she took along her pouch of daggers as she swept out of the door, terrifying like an angel of vengeance.

But she should have thought, should have thought that they would expect her to react like that, should have thought of the footnote in the Cardinal’s notes about her work:  
_Does not agree to threaten children. Instead reacted violently to the proposition._

But Milady did not think. All she could think about was her own rage and guilt. For one small moment she thought about Olivier, but then he had not cared about her for a long time. And so, she dropped the thought and all thoughts of her own safety.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story is taken from the poem "L'amour et la folie" of the great Jean de la Fontaine (1621-1695). Roughly translated the title of this story means "Love and Madness play a game together".


End file.
